interest.
‘He was sent by a Pawnee chief as a gift for General Trumpeter. But I fear that he is unmanageable.’
‘I’ve yet to see the horse that couldn’t be managed,’ Red remarked.
‘This one can’t,’ Hoffinger stated before Dusty could speak. ‘In fact I’m willing to bet that you haven’t a man here who can saddle and ride it, even though the chief assured me it had been saddle-broke and one of his men rode it in from the tribe’s horse-herd.’
‘You’d bet on it?’ Dusty asked quietly.
‘I would, sir. And I have a thousand dollars in gold to back my words.’
‘A thousand dollars,’ Dusty said. ‘Against what?’
‘The remounts,’ Hoffinger told him.
‘That’s a right sporting bet!’ Red snorted. ‘The hosses’re worth more than a thousand dollars.’
‘True,’ Hoffinger replied. ‘But I have seen the horse ridden and feel that I should be given odds.’
‘The hell—!’ Red started hotly.
‘He’s right,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘If that chief told the truth, he should have the odds. So if Mr. Hoffinger fetches out that thousand dollars, I’ll take his bet and give it a whirl.’
Hoffinger held down the delight he felt at Dusty falling into the trap. He did not doubt that the bet would be honoured and, considering how the horse had acted when his men tried to saddle it, was sure that Dusty would fail.
‘The money’s in my hand, sir,’ Hoffinger said, holding out the bag. ‘Mr. Blaze will be acceptable to me as stake-holder.’
‘We’ll let Sergeant-major Glock help him,’ Dusty answered. ‘Red, tell Sandy to fetch over my saddle while I take a look at the horse.’
Leaving Red to attend to the details, Dusty went to where the bay was tethered. Swinging to face him, it backed off until halted by the rope. Ears pricked and nostrils flaring, it exhibited a nervousness which increased as Sandy McGraw came up carrying Dusty’s saddle, saddle-blanket and bridle. A jingle from the latter’s bit brought a louder snort and the horse reared as high as the picket rope would let it.
‘Put the blanket and saddle down, Sandy,’ Dusty ordered in a quiet, gentle voice. ‘And take the bridle away with you.’
The guidon-carrier obeyed and as he retired, Billy Jack passed him walking with greater than usual speed.
‘Hear tell you’ve bet you can ride that hoss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Got to talking to Fritz Glock about it just now. He reckons the Pawnee Chief they got it off allowed it’d been three-saddled. Only neither him nor Joe Mullitz’ve managed to get a saddle on its back or bit in its mouth.’
‘Sounds bad,’ Dusty drawled, knowing that ‘three-saddled’ meant the horse had been ridden at least three times by the man breaking it.
‘Don’t you sell’em short. They’re both thirty-year men and trained as cavalry afore the War. Mullitz was a riding instructor back East.’
‘Did he ever serve out West?’
‘Neither him nor Frirz from what they told us.’
‘That figures,’ Dusty said cryptically. ‘Let’s see if I can win that bet.’
‘Ole Devil’ll have your hide if you lose!’ Billy Jack wailed and, for once, his concern was not entirely assumed, for he knew the stakes of the wager.
‘Likely,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Tell Glock’s men I figure the New Hampstead Volunteers’re sporting enough not to make fuss and spoil my chance.’
‘Sure,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘And in case they ain’t sporting enough, I’ll have ‘em watched real good.’
Turning his attention to the horse once more, Dusty noticed that its nervousness had died slightly with the removal of the jingling bridle. As he expected, it had on an Indian hackamore and not a U.S. Army halter. The chief difference was that the former had reins attached to a bosal — a rawhide loop fitted around the face just above the mouth — instead of a lead-rope.
Although Sandy had removed Dusty’s bed-roll and sabre on hearing of the bet, he had left the
‘He was sent by a Pawnee chief as a gift for General Trumpeter. But I fear that he is unmanageable.’
‘I’ve yet to see the horse that couldn’t be managed,’ Red remarked.
‘This one can’t,’ Hoffinger stated before Dusty could speak. ‘In fact I’m willing to bet that you haven’t a man here who can saddle and ride it, even though the chief assured me it had been saddle-broke and one of his men rode it in from the tribe’s horse-herd.’
‘You’d bet on it?’ Dusty asked quietly.
‘I would, sir. And I have a thousand dollars in gold to back my words.’
‘A thousand dollars,’ Dusty said. ‘Against what?’
‘The remounts,’ Hoffinger told him.
‘That’s a right sporting bet!’ Red snorted. ‘The hosses’re worth more than a thousand dollars.’
‘True,’ Hoffinger replied. ‘But I have seen the horse ridden and feel that I should be given odds.’
‘The hell—!’ Red started hotly.
‘He’s right,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘If that chief told the truth, he should have the odds. So if Mr. Hoffinger fetches out that thousand dollars, I’ll take his bet and give it a whirl.’
Hoffinger held down the delight he felt at Dusty falling into the trap. He did not doubt that the bet would be honoured and, considering how the horse had acted when his men tried to saddle it, was sure that Dusty would fail.
‘The money’s in my hand, sir,’ Hoffinger said, holding out the bag. ‘Mr. Blaze will be acceptable to me as stake-holder.’
‘We’ll let Sergeant-major Glock help him,’ Dusty answered. ‘Red, tell Sandy to fetch over my saddle while I take a look at the horse.’
Leaving Red to attend to the details, Dusty went to where the bay was tethered. Swinging to face him, it backed off until halted by the rope. Ears pricked and nostrils flaring, it exhibited a nervousness which increased as Sandy McGraw came up carrying Dusty’s saddle, saddle-blanket and bridle. A jingle from the latter’s bit brought a louder snort and the horse reared as high as the picket rope would let it.
‘Put the blanket and saddle down, Sandy,’ Dusty ordered in a quiet, gentle voice. ‘And take the bridle away with you.’
The guidon-carrier obeyed and as he retired, Billy Jack passed him walking with greater than usual speed.
‘Hear tell you’ve bet you can ride that hoss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Got to talking to Fritz Glock about it just now. He reckons the Pawnee Chief they got it off allowed it’d been three-saddled. Only neither him nor Joe Mullitz’ve managed to get a saddle on its back or bit in its mouth.’
‘Sounds bad,’ Dusty drawled, knowing that ‘three-saddled’ meant the horse had been ridden at least three times by the man breaking it.
‘Don’t you sell’em short. They’re both thirty-year men and trained as cavalry afore the War. Mullitz was a riding instructor back East.’
‘Did he ever serve out West?’
‘Neither him nor Frirz from what they told us.’
‘That figures,’ Dusty said cryptically. ‘Let’s see if I can win that bet.’
‘Ole Devil’ll have your hide if you lose!’ Billy Jack wailed and, for once, his concern was not entirely assumed, for he knew the stakes of the wager.
‘Likely,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Tell Glock’s men I figure the New Hampstead Volunteers’re sporting enough not to make fuss and spoil my chance.’
‘Sure,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘And in case they ain’t sporting enough, I’ll have ‘em watched real good.’
Turning his attention to the horse once more, Dusty noticed that its nervousness had died slightly with the removal of the jingling bridle. As he expected, it had on an Indian hackamore and not a U.S. Army halter. The chief difference was that the former had reins attached to a bosal — a rawhide loop fitted around the face just above the mouth — instead of a lead-rope.
Although Sandy had removed Dusty’s bed-roll and sabre on hearing of the bet, he had left the
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